


platonic geometry

by derryfacts2 (winchysteria)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Eddie Kaspbrak Gets Divorced, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Injured Eddie Kaspbrak, M/M, Roommates, Seasonal Affective Disorder, Valentine's Day, eddie with a cane. i just like it, it's platonic in the philosophical sense like they're very much in love with each other, richie's to be specific, this is like the texture of eeyore if he was a stuffed animal in terms of soft and sad, whats the touch love language called
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29461056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchysteria/pseuds/derryfacts2
Summary: He stares down into the plastic bag on the counter and hates himself. Whatever way there is to say “I’m ignoring today because I want to be polite about waiting for you to marry me; also no pressure,” they surely don’t print it on officially licensed Hasbro Transformers Valentines.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 27
Kudos: 324





	platonic geometry

**Author's Note:**

> if ur like "damn this seems like u got emo about valentine's day and reread 'like a bullet in the back' by cathedraltunes," then wow, u have a really great eye. in terms of creative integrity this is like if applebees bought a burger from tgi fridays and then put the layers in a different order and put it on their menu. still, free burger
> 
> pls see end notes if u have questions abt the nature of the depressive aspect here! or the eddie injury aspect! thx!!
> 
> feel free to follow me on twitter [@derryfacts2](https://twitter.com/derryfacts2/)  
> 

Richie is challenging to Eddie, sometimes.

Not the loving him part, of course. Loving him is always like the first sip out of a fast-food soda, the zip and relief of it, all the included air. It’s just that Richie doesn’t always seem to want you to do it.

Eddie leans on his cane and looks at the little Valentine’s section in the CVS. He stares, aggravated in the same way assault can be aggravated. They stock all the usual suspects: teddy bears with the little hearts on their feet; boxes of chocolate that are much less than the sum of their parts, value-wise. The boxes are also heart-shaped. A pillow, specialty candy bars, conversation hearts, Reese’s cups in a heart mold and soft bees with hearts at the ends of their antennae and all the curves and sloped edges and the smooth cursive script. They even have jewelry, as if getting a drugstore version of something that’s meant to last a long time isn’t the greatest insult in the world.

Eddie himself is constitutionally incapable of getting a gift for someone out of the seasonal aisle at CVS. Men his age who shop in the seasonal aisle have wives who are cheating on them. Kids who shop there are overcome by a love that exceeds the bounds of their duct-tape wallets. The place is for people who are unprepared or just don’t care enough or, god forbid, have a sense of whimsy about life. 

Well, Eddie’s wife never cheated, and his teenage affections were stymied by things more painful than money, and he is always prepared for everything, and perhaps at one point he did suffer from a lack of caring but he never let it affect the gifts. He certainly cares enough now, anyway. He cares so fervently that it mixes him up some days: was that a twinge from the missing material in his gut where he’d been stabbed, or was it from the extra material on his unsmooth and complicated anatomical heart, the little stubborn growing lump of his love for Richie?

He absolutely does not have a sense of whimsy. Not ever, especially not in a drugstore under the white lights and the pop-chart castoff music drifting down from the ceiling like snow. Richie does, though. Eddie swipes a box of Transformer-themed Valentine cards into his basket. Richie might think it’s funny. He might show the tentative maps of the smile lines growing around his eyes.

They sell those little necklaces that girls gave to their friends in third grade. Boys, now, too, probably, because as the world rolls around under the cosmic couch it keeps picking up things, and some of them are good. The metal, Eddie thinks to himself, practically advertises that it will turn your sternum green after very long. They come in sets with complimentary half-jagged pendants, a heart that appears only when the necklaces are pushed together. One type says BEST FRIENDS. Another has a little insinuating jewel on each half and no words at all.

Eddie spreads it all out on the counter for the cashier, the Aquaphor and the Vaseline and the stupid cartoon cards and two flavors of Milanos. He is, with a little effort, polite, and then he twists his pointy face into the bitter February wind as he leaves for home.

_ This asshole, _ Eddie had thought as he locked eyes with Richie at the Jade. Bill had taken a moment to place, because he was small, and Mike a little less time because of the distinctive and beautiful apples of his cheeks. Richie was absolutely immediate. Nothing at all had changed, not the glasses or the way he came clanging into a room or the loud fucking voice. His breadth was a little surprising, maybe, but Richie had been well on his way to six foot by the time Eddie moved away.

_ Absolutely _ nothing was less surprising than the fact that he had grown up to be an asshole. Eddie was relieved by this, because he himself had grown up to be kind of shrewish and mean, sawing through the world with the grace of a serrated knife. It had felt normal while it happened. In Derry it suddenly felt shameful, surrounded as he was by the tableau of his childhood friends, handing food to each other with the Byzantine gold-leaf halos emanating from behind their heads.

So Richie had been a dick. A selfish one. Blessedly. Someone besides Eddie who had to be dragged kicking and screaming into preventing child murder. They were of a kind, until suddenly Richie’s warm, determined hands were on him in the green air of the sewers as he said warm, determined things, the fucking Benedict Arnold: Eddie wanted to pummel him to the ground and then kiss him when they both got down there.

The spikes, it turned out, are defensive rather than offensive. Something to protect Richie from the world. When Richie turns and faces you on purpose, Eddie discovered, he’s like the dome of a still-cooling layer cake, forgiving and shedding the sweet scent of vanilla. He had offered up his apartment in Tribeca immediately, when Eddie was down one kidney and trying to send his marriage to the great hereafter with it. “It’s all one story and the elevator always works. I’m not even there most of the time.”

Eddie had moved in. The cold-weather aversion that kept Richie  _ in L.A. every other week, I have a place out there too, _ never materialized. And then they lived together.

The house is quiet when Eddie shoulders the door open, which he expected. The curtain is already coming down on Valentine’s Day, blue-gray winter sun bowing out of the kitchen with no apartment lights turned on to chase it. He sets everything down on the counter gently. Keys in bowl, cane against wall, parka on hook—despite his perpetual singledom Richie’s apartment had already had four coat-hooks next to the door.

They hadn’t talked about dinner, but there are probably still leftovers in the fridge of the lasagna Richie had made in a sudden burst of energy on Sunday afternoon. When Eddie first moved in, they ate together all the time, and then, shyly, less; at some point Richie had said  _ you aren’t looking for other places right now, right,  _ and when Eddie said  _ no is that okay? _ it was like they’d made some kind of joint-custody pact about their dinner plans, texting if they would be late or absent, ordering two servings by default, bickering over the acceptability of stir-fry recipes even when it would be easier to just separately microwave whatever like the bachelor roommates they supposedly were. Eddie had been more in charge of this than Richie, over the past couple of months. Sometimes Richie hadn’t felt much like eating.

The apartment only has one bathroom, to which Eddie adds the new tube of hand cream and jar of Vaseline. He and Richie share these: Eddie has exacting taste in shampoo and toothpaste, but even he can admit that there is no way to upstage pure petroleum jelly for the dry red-cracked knuckles of both of their hands. Richie hadn’t seemed all that bothered in November when his skin started to chap. Eddie kept having to throw tubes of lotion at him; Richie made jokes about this in the same savoring way he sat in the water of a hot tub.

(The hot tub had belonged to Ben. Eddie witnessed this during the holidays when they were all together in the same house and there was very little privacy to think anything about it one way or the other.)

But anyway, Richie uses the lotion and Eddie is indecorously proud of the mostly-intact skin on his wrists and hands. He can’t do anything about the encroaching shade of Richie’s own brain, but the hands were manageable. Eddie can do that.

It’s a husband-thing to think. Not in the practical sense, but aspirationally, anyway.

“Valentine’s Day is tomorrow,” Richie had said. “I almost didn’t notice.”

Eddie, his legs tucked under the electric blanket and his feet tucked under Richie’s left thigh, had noticed. He looked up from the nonfiction book, a prop so that he could watch Richie watch movies, and he said, “Time is fucking weird this year.”

Richie’s head tipped back onto the backrest of the couch and then rolled toward Eddie. It looked heavy. His eyes had that vaguely guilty look Eddie could never quite shoo out, the one that said that the passage of time and its slippery nature was Richie’s fault. “Hot plans?” Richie asked, self-deprecating.

“Yeah, I’m gonna go to Lonely Hearts Night down the street. I’m really into speed dating these days,” Eddie said. He wiggled his toes under Richie’s thigh.

Richie grinned at him.  _ Pulp Fiction _ played fruitlessly in the background. “That at the Buffalo Wild Wings?”

“Yeah, you get extra ranch if you’re divorced,” Eddie said.

Richie wiggled his butt down further into the couch cushion, as if to respond to Eddie’s toes. This change in posture tilted his head, straighter and more sincere. The brushstrokes of hair at his temples nudged up against the leather. “Are you gonna be all mopey if you don’t do anything?”

There was a note of teasing in his voice, but Eddie knew him too well for it. He looked back very seriously with a very straight head as he said, “Not in the slightest.”

“Not missing out on any of the amorous activities?” Richie shimmied his shoulders and it made the soft protrusions of his chest move. “No traditions you’ll be sad to lose?”

He rolled his r’s in a faux-suggestive way; the resulting accent landed in a vaguely offensive space between Cuba and Ireland. Eddie, thinking of the bloodless candlelit dinners and carefully negotiated jewelry purchases of his marriage, blanched.

“You oppose it on principle,” Richie said, nodding. “Wise. I mean, the blood diamonds alone.”

“The Mean Sunovabitch Union would revoke my membership,” Eddie replied.

“They should’ve already done that, my little cabbage roll, you’re so sweet to me,” Richie said, and he reached over to coochie-coo Eddie under the chin and laughed loudly, neck stretching, when Eddie snapped his teeth at Richie’s fingers.

The truth of it was that he nearly forgot the day, distracted as he was by the ongoing effort to stop having a hole in his torso. Among other things. The divorce wasn’t protracted, but it was nasty; Myra had found One-Kidney Eddie offensive and frightening. He went back to remote work in October and the office after Christmas, the slick black cane emphasizing his natural Scrooginess. He had physical therapy and therapy-therapy. Everything was four times as tiring. And he’d worried about Richie. And he’d moralized about the worry. And he’d loved him, not gently but with an attempt at softness.

Once he remembered, he realized that there was nothing to be done about it. The love and the pursuant holiday, both, but the holiday in particular was impossible to engage with at the odd angle of their relationship. A platonic friend could get gifts, make jokes, go out for dinner in the smug warmth of subverting the holiday for other types of devotion. A husband-boyfriend-suitor could cook you a butter-basted steak and then, after a digestive intermission, make love to you so slowly and purposefully you both cried. But just now, they are both too ragged at the edges for the latter, and Eddie, at least, is too lovesick to stomach the former.

He stares down into the plastic bag on the counter and hates himself. Whatever way there is to say “I’m ignoring today because I want to be polite about waiting for you to marry me; also no pressure,” they surely don’t print it on officially licensed Hasbro Transformers Valentines. Better the stuffed bee with the heart antennas. Better the fucking necklaces. His T7 vertebra hurts in a tight, middle-aged way. He’s turned all the lights in the den-kitchen-dining room on and he can see three or four of his own shadows jabbing their way past each other across the counter.

They don’t have a pen cup; Eddie roots in the drawers of the coffee table. Past a deck of cards and an empty bag of CBD gummies. Past spare chargers and a pair of socks he had told Richie to  _ move because it’s fucking gross to leave your dirty socks on the table where we eat  _ and which Richie had stuffed brattily into the table itself, and Eddie had given him a wet willie for that but had never actually bothered with the socks.

_ SORRY I,  _ Eddie writes in Sharpie underneath Optimus Prime. He tears it up before he throws it away. Then he writes _ I KNOW _ on Bumblebee before he sees the little sign in his robot hands that says Let’s Bee Friends, and that goes into the garbage too. The little white spaces were so fucking small. He ruins eight of the thirty-two before he gives up and picks the one with the gayest pose on the front and brings it, blank, into Richie’s room.

It’s dark, but the shades aren’t drawn, which is good: Richie was up for most of the afternoon. It’s been getting better. It has.

The soft heft of Richie’s back curves away from the door, knees drawn up. At the sound of Eddie’s double-socked bad-circulation feet on the floorboards, Richie sticks one arm up in the air as a greeting:  _ not asleep-asleep, just resting. _ Eddie can feel frustration coming off him in sticky waves: yesterday was good, and the day before wonderful, the whole past week like the forward curve of a child on a playground swing. On Sunday, when he made the lasagna, Richie had danced to Dolly Parton in the fun-sized kitchen and twirled Eddie as he sang, “lookin’ better than Spaghetti has a right to.” When Richie sings, it’s a joke but still really his voice, and touching his hand had felt like that, too.

Richie’s depression is equal parts vicious and tenacious and temporary. Responsive as he always has been to the world, Richie had unfurled and took light in all summer, then flickered fitfully into autumn, and then he spent the winter curled over double, surfacing above the horizon in brief daily sprints. He does well at the holidays, or at least he had done this year. Eddie isn’t sure what happens in the spring. He hasn’t been around for it yet. He’s seeing this all for the first time, sort of, except that it fits right into sockets in his brain where he must have already known. Richie was moody and withdrawn when the days got shorter, even as a kid.

Eddie, to his own great surprise, does not even have regular-flavor, Ritz-cracker depression. PTSD, sure, but as he became more mobile and less foggy over the fall months, he watched in confusion as Richie sputtered and slowed, like Eddie was some kind of unwitting vampire.

“It’s just like this,” Richie had said, then waggled his eyebrows. “What can I say, this well-oiled fuck machine requires huge amounts of Vitamin D.”

He was not. A fuck machine, that is. Not to Eddie at least. Not that it mattered. Sometimes Richie would look at him with these cat-eyes, dark and wide and tempted, and Eddie would think  _ when I get my stitches out your life is fucking over. _ But the six months after you almost die hand-in-hand with your middle school lunch table are pretty busy. Not that that stopped Mike or Bill, or for that matter Stan, judging by Patty’s due date, and Bev and Ben’s little stop-and-go courting ritual is basically in the public domain at this point, considering how much of it happens in the group text.

They all still have both kidneys, though.

So Eddie was physically indisposed, and then Richie’s brain got testy: it was generally not bad until right after the holidays, when they said goodbye to their friends and Eddie went back to work and Richie pile-drove face-first into a depressive episode that was as overdue and formidable as a fourteen-pound baby.

They fought.

Richie was up to his ankles in self-loathing: his brain needled him about the friends that had appeared like magic out of nowhere, friends which he had just accepted as fact like some stupid kid opening the gates of Troy for the pretty horsie—this is what he told Eddie later, after the worst part was over. And Eddie was easy to fight with, ready to believe he had ruined it with his hatchet-faced sharp-fingered incompleteness. He tried to fix everything and got snippy and defensive when it didn’t work. Richie’s spikes were back out. “You have to stop fucking solving me,” he had said. “I am going to be a problem anyway.”

So they didn’t talk for a few weeks. Richie drank and slept and didn’t charge his phone and never wore a hat when he went out to smoke. Eddie went to work and the doctor and limited himself, forever wary of the Sonia genes, to making sure there was dinner. He didn’t try to make Richie eat it, but it was always at least there.

The day Eddie was divorced, like Really Divorced, he had the afternoon off work and he sat on the couch with his bare freezing feet up on the coffee table. He wasn’t sad to be rid of Myra. He had felt, several times, a pure euphoria about it: only the week before he had taken a welding torch to his wedding ring in Ben’s garage, and they sent a video to Bev, who had sent a two-minute voice memo of hysterical laughter. Ben listened to it a few times, pink in the face.

Today, though, he hugged himself around the middle and put cold beer into his already-cold stomach. He thought about the hubris of believing he would be any more prepared to face life’s general cuntiness now that he was down one life partner, one-and-a-quarter organs, and sixty percent of his material wealth. He felt vague grief, too, for the delicate miraculous thing that had half-built itself between him and Richie, spun glass and spiderweb, balconies and spiral staircases out of the way Richie held his hand in the hospital and followed his painkiller-sleepy instructions about unpacking his suits and looked at him, soft-mouthed, when Eddie came home carrying snow in his hair and a Douglas fir wreath for the door.

He ordered Chinese takeout, because he was divorced. Richie emerged from his room while it was still warm. Eddie knew that the humiliating sadness of it was all over his face, so he curled in over his soup and tried not to make eye contact, but Richie sat down anyway. Maybe he just saw; maybe Bev had told him. They ate in silence on opposite ends of the couch until Richie couldn’t take it anymore and put the blanket over Eddie’s lap and his feet.

He left to smoke after a little while. He was gone a long time. When he came back, Eddie was curled on the couch sideways with his arms sticking out like roadkill; Richie grabbed one of his hands and squeezed.

After that it was like he couldn’t leave a room without it. It was a few more days before they said anything at all, but Richie still reached out, brief and sure, when they saw each other. His hands were always warm. He found Eddie watching  _ The Wizard of Oz _ in the dark one Saturday night and sat down, and he complied when Eddie reached palm-up over the couch cushions between them. They watched the rest of the movie hand-in-hand, leaning against opposite arms of the couch, and Richie’s voice when he said “good night” was rusty from disuse and also beautiful.

They talked again slowly, fits and starts, but no matter whether the talking was angry or friendly or practically nothing, it ended with Richie bumping his gigantic body into Eddie’s somehow. Eddie made sure there was dinner and Richie chose a movie and they passed nights that way. After  _ Zombieland, _ of all things, Richie kissed him carefully on the forehead before he went back to bed.

February was better. Richie cleaned the bottles out from under his bed. He went to a meeting, an audition, a meeting, and kissed Eddie’s cheek, right over the scar, every time he returned.

There is a depth to all of it that swallows him without warning. Even in Richie’s bedroom, a place they don’t technically share, the scoremarks of Eddie’s presence are all over: a foam pillow under Richie’s bed that Eddie uses to prop up his knees when they watch something on the laptop in here— _ it’s to take pressure off your low back! Eds I think your lower back has other things to worry about _ ; a jar of hand cream on the dresser but something scented this time, a nice thing Eddie had found at Christmas; a couple of cast-off pop science books on the nightstand that Richie, unlike Eddie, might actually read.

But the room smells of Richie. Clean and unwashed versions, his cologne, the mysterious way detergent settles different against his skin than Eddie’s. He’s on top of the covers in a soft-looking yellow sweatshirt and the bow from his shoulders to his waist catches the very last of the iced-over daylight. It punches a second hole right through Eddie’s torso, but that’s fine; Richie would probably give him a kidney if he asked anyway.

“Hey,” Eddie says.

“Fuck off,” Richie says. Spikes out.

Eddie walks to the nightstand and sets down the bag of raspberry Milanos—Richie’s flavor—and the Valentine, and the Sharpie which he’d forgotten between the ring and pinky fingers of his right hand. He climbs onto the bed in his work pants and shirt and waits, kneeling, for Richie to move: he doesn’t. So Eddie takes the notched and angular front of himself, the wedge where part of his stomach is missing and the poky shapes of his knees and hips and breast, and he lays it along the defensive ridge of Richie’s spine. The jagged edges lock together.

Richie takes a deep, shuddering breath. Eddie wraps an arm around his waist.

When they clutch at Eddie’s right hand, Richie’s fingers are whole, no cracks. The back of his neck smells so intensely of him Eddie’s chest hurts. It seems right and good to be able to squeeze it into Richie’s torso, all the feeling.

He’d rather die than really get up from the warmth and solidity, like how it felt impossible as a kid to want to climb down from the branches of a sunwarmed tree. How he felt wild and sure of himself, twined in a place he belonged. Still, in Eddie’s mind, he floats up to the ceiling and looks down at them together. Joy turning over gently in his chest; maybe Richie can feel it. They have the jagged crack down the middle, sure enough, but the outside lines aren’t as smooth, as easily geometric. Instead it’s a muscle. Their tangled arms vein and artery, the vena cava of Richie’s head, the coming down of their bent legs to a point where Eddie sandwiches their feet together to keep warm.

He waits, gripping tightly, until Richie’s breathing slows and he falls into a light sleep. The foam-top mattress doesn’t move too much when Eddie extricates himself, placing an apologetic kiss to the back of Richie’s shoulder. This thrills him.

The pop of the cap coming off the Sharpie is unpleasantly loud. The smell is high and astringent in Eddie’s nose as he writes:  _ YOURS, _ and then considers. He writes two arrows downward from that  _ YOURS _ in an upside down V. At the bottom of one arrow, he writes  _ COOKIES. _ At the bottom of the other, feeling again the thrill of sticking affection to Richie’s sleeping form, Eddie writes  _ ME.  _ He places the bag of Milanos over just the corner of the valentine, the colorful hip-thrusting robot cartoon still out where it can get attention.

He changes into his own loungewear—when he takes off his work shirt the collar smells like Richie’s cologne, and he does not put it on the laundry pile right away. He does his light physical therapy exercises, not the ones that make him sweat, because he isn’t really ready to wash the day off his skin yet. Eventually it’s seven, bordering on the end of his Acid Reflux Avoidance Timeframe, so he sets two servings of lasagna on plates and starts microwaving them, with the plastic dish cover over top that he’d had to buy himself because Richie, again, was perfectly content to just let soup splatter all over the microwave ceiling and then dry up there when he nuked the next thing without wiping the surfaces down.

The first one comes out hot and fragrant. The second one, Eddie doesn’t reach the timer before it loudly beeps completion.

There is shifting from Richie’s bedroom, and then there’s Richie. He has a pillow line through his left cheek under the outside corner of his eye. Eddie knows, because Richie told him, that when it comes to sex or love in the dredges of an episode, there’s wanting and there’s Wanting, and they stack up in a frustrating way like different-sized board games. The way he looks at Eddie now is blurred and simple and sweet. Vanilla extract.

“Lasagna?” Eddie asks, unsure what to say in the face of a Richie so well-pleased and pajama’ed.

“Cups? Silverware?” Richie asks in return. 

Eddie nods at him. “What do you wanna watch?”

Reaching up to the cupboard for glasses, pulling out the drawer for forks and knives, Richie doesn’t respond. He takes all of this over to the coffee table and sets it down; the matching rises on either side of his spine, the thick muscles there, appear and disappear as he bends gently. Then he turns and walks over as if he’s in some kind of a big hurry and he leans down to kiss Eddie.

Richie holds him by the jawbone, one hand under each ear; he tilts Eddie’s face up the way you might cup a peony to smell it. Eddie accepts this with a hot buzz of happiness. He leans all the way into his body and lets Richie crane his neck and takes from Richie’s mouth the taste of raspberry and chocolate and the fact that he puts straight Vaseline on his lips instead of Chapstick, the animal. Against the inside of Eddie’s elbows, Richie’s waist is soft and giving; against his hands Richie’s ribs feel like the buttresses of a cathedral. The largeness of his thumb stroking gently from Eddie’s cheekbone to the tragus of his ear is like life’s special apology to him for the knife wound.

Except then Richie lets Eddie’s mouth go and instead snuffles across his cheek to kiss the sharp line of the scar again, which is surely the real special apology. Eddie laughs a shrieking laugh and doesn’t loosen his grip even a little.

_ “First Wives Club,” _ Richie says, so close to Eddie’s ear that it tickles.

“But the beginning,” Eddie objects.

“We can skip it if it makes you feel better,” Richie says. “I really only care about Goldie Hawn throwing shit.”

“If you say so,” Eddie says, resting his head on Richie’s shoulder. He looks at the yellow fabric of the sweatshirt, so determined to be happy, feels the flex of Richie’s deltoid under his cheek as it practices effort, the beat of being alive. He thinks,  _ a muscle, okay, _ and he lets himself be waltzed clumsily to the couch.

**Author's Note:**

> richie has seasonal affective disorder in this fic, and there's a somewhat-detailed description of what a depressive episode is like for him. he's coming out of this episode as the body of the fic happens. the effects of a depressive disorder on starting a romantic relationship are lightly explored. it's implied that richie has a problematic relationship with alcohol. the general idea of suicidal ideation is alluded to via a movie reference, but it's super vague and not in terms of richie himself. i personally do not have seasonal affective disorder or diagnosed depression, so this is a mishmash of research, secondhand experience, and General Personal History of Sometimes Brain Bad-- if i said something mildly or very heinous and you have better information, please let me know. i appreciate it.
> 
> eddie's divorce is a topic, but we don't talk too much about myra herself or the nature of their relationship. eddie also survived aeration via clown leg, and he makes a couple of jokes about and references to the resulting injuries. he only has one kidney now. he uses a cane sometimes.


End file.
